


Sugarcoated

by Shey



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Anal Sex, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Good Peter Hale, Humor, Light daddy kink, M/M, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Secret Relationship, Steter Secret Santa 2020, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy Peter Hale, kind of, retail is hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28233522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shey/pseuds/Shey
Summary: Stiles doesn't want to admit it, but his dad is right—he's trying to pack way too many minimum-wage hours into the five-week break before the new semester starts. But what else is a screwed over college student with a budget tighter than his worn-out skinny jeans supposed to do?At least he's found some nice, distracting eye-candy to keep his mind off of his problems.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 240
Kudos: 750





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frogsandboxes](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=frogsandboxes).



> Frogsandboxes on Tumblr requested an AU, sugar daddy Peter, secret relationship, and dark/creepy. Unfortunately, dark/creepy isn’t really my thing (sorry!!), but I hope I hit on the other requests enough for you to enjoy the fluff! 
> 
> November/December was a terrible beast of a week, so I'm obviously a little behind, but it's 11:48pm here so I'm technically not late! I'm hoping to have the other chapters up in the next 10 days or so. Sorry for making you wait for them! (Edit: 10 days was obviously a lie, but this got long! LOL. Hoping to be done soon!)
> 
> As always, so many, many thank you to Twisted_Mind for being the best Secret-Santa elf ever! She is an actual magical-creature and I would never get anything done without her! (Seriously. I need so much hand-holding and cheerleading and she is always amazing! <3 )

“ _Cashier to cash-wrap. Cashier to cash-wrap._ ”

Stiles lets the phone hit the cradle in a crackling Walmart-hang-up and winces as the peppy holiday music starts up again. Hopefully, his page for assistance held the right amount of harried desperation. Not so panicked that the customers milling the store will notice, but firm enough that his manager—and designated back-up cashier—will put down her cell phone, leave the office, and do her god-damned job.

He turns to the growing queue of book-wielding holiday shoppers snaking through the front of the store and pastes on his best customer service smile. “Next in line?”

He has to forcibly hold back a cringe at the swoopy haircut and determined stride of the woman approaching his register.

“Sorry for the wait.” He reaches for the stack of books she drops on the counter, intent on getting through the transaction before she can find a way to make his day more exhausting than it already is. It’s the fourth time he’s seen that haircut today, and it’s living up to its reputation. 

He swallows down a sigh. It’s bad enough he’s racking up the retail hours over his winter break when he’d rather be wallowing on the sofa and catching up on much-needed sleep after an overloaded semester. He refuses to admit it out loud, but his dad was right when he said Stiles was packing too much into the five-week winter vacation. 

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” he forces out in his most pleasant, happy-to-help voice. He knows he isn’t being fair. A haircut doesn’t determine a person’s treatment of retail employees. And yet—

“No. I definitely didn’t. You would think a store this size would _try_ to stock all of the best-sellers. I don’t know what I’m going to do now. You’ve absolutely _ruined_ my holiday plans.”

Stiles grinds his teeth against the retort that he, personally, didn’t make her wait to do her shopping until the Saturday before Christmas. “Was anyone helping you? Maybe we can order it to be shipped to your house?”

“It’s too late now. My husband will just have to settle for—wait—“ She reaches out and slaps one Christmas-red gel-manicured hand down on the book Stiles is about to scan. “You need to discount that one. It’s damaged.”

Stiles blinks at the book with a sinking sensation. It’s nearly pristine—just a normal bit of shelf-wear at the corner. 

He glances over the woman’s shoulder at the increasingly impatient customers waiting in line and picks up the phone again. “Manager to cash-wrap please, manager to cash-wrap.”

Stiles keeps his sigh of relief internal when his manager actually appears at the top of the escalator. Thank fuck. 

His stomach chooses that moment to grumble demandingly. Stiles glances at the clock. Only five minutes until his break. He can probably hold it together for five minutes.

Despite his fervent wishes, the mess at the register means he ends up twenty minutes late clocking out for his thirty and ready to murder anyone between him and the break room. 

Hangry is a real thing. Skipping breakfast was not worth the ten extra minutes of sleep, no matter what past-Stiles thought. On top of that, he grabbed the wrong shoes and the soles of his feet are throbbing in time with his pulse. He’s half-convinced he’ll never walk normally again. 

Ugh. He’s been doing this too long to still make these freaking rookie mistakes.

Quickly stuffing his nametag into his back pocket, he beelines for the break room. Head down, shoulders hunched, he projects “don’t talk to me” with every fiber of his being. Then he makes yet another basic error. 

“Excuse me.”

 _Don’t stop walking_ , he tells himself, even as he slows and reluctantly lifts his head, an apology on his lips. He’s on his _break_ goddamnit, and he needs to sit more than he needs air at this point. 

“I need you to sell me the most horrifying, trope-filled, misogynistic, pre-teen targeted drivel you have in stock.”

Stiles’ eyes widen against his will and his forward momentum stalls. The man appears to be dead-serious. “Um—and who are you shopping for?” he can’t help but ask—a thin veneer of professionalism lingering despite everything. It’s probably the best he can hope for at this point. 

Besides, Stiles is the living embodiment of “curiosity killed the cat”. With an opening line like that, he hardly has a choice. He silently mourns his lunch break.

“My sister.”

“Alright…” Stiles drags out. “And your sister likes questionable YA novels?”

“God, no. She only reads historical romance and self-help books written by happily married blondes.”

Stiles chokes on his spit. “But you said—”

“Yes. She’s going to _despise_ it.” The man’s smirk widens into a wicked grin, revealing his perfect teeth. 

Stiles gapes. Because _oh_ , this guy’s gorgeous. Like, luxury-product model gorgeous. His over-tired brain wants rub his face against the man's short beard and lick his canines. He fights the reaction down—this really isn’t the time.

“You’re buying your sister a book she’s going to hate?”

“I’m aiming past hate. I’m hoping she throws me out of the house.”

Stiles squints at him, head tilted.

Maybe if he was less of an exhausted mess—if his shift at his evening job hadn’t gone so late, or he hadn’t spent 40 minutes helping a customer choose the _perfect_ series for her daughter, only to find the stack of books on a table near the doors when he was cleaning, or he wasn’t so goddamn nosey _—_ Stiles would have let it go.

But no. He’s had a shitty day and he’s feeling vindictive. He meets the guy’s eyes— _so blue,_ _Jesus_ —and grins. He suddenly has a feeling delaying his lunch break will be worth it. 

“Let’s do this.”

He leads hot-guy over to the young adult section and pulls out a few possibilities, getting thoughtful hums but not much interest. Then he has an idea that makes him snicker. 

“How about this one? It’s a series.” He tugs the glossy trade-paperback off the shelf. “The main guy’s got the personality of over-cooked spaghetti, the writer has a terrible habit of killing off the kick-ass girls in lieu of character development, and the queer-baiting is so blatant it’s got its own portmanteau.” Stiles rocks up on his toes in excitement. “Oh! And if that’s not enough to piss your sister off, the plot has more holes and loose threads than the skinny-jeans I’m not allowed to wear in public anymore—because indecent exposure laws aren’t just for my dad’s peace of mind.”

Hot-guy blinks. Then his eyes drag down the length of Stiles’ body in obvious appraisal. His lips twitch into a smirk. 

Stiles squirms as he realizes he got a little ranty and offered a questionable mental-image to the most attractive man he’s ever seen. He chokes down a groan and sheepishly rubs at the heat creeping up the back of his neck. ”Sorry.”

Hot-guy ends his leering with a chuckle. He shifts closer to Stiles and glances at the cover of the book, taking in the shirtless dude with glowing red eyes. He cocks an eyebrow. “You sound invested for how terrible it supposedly is.”

Stiles would like to hide in the breakroom now. “It had a lot of potential. Okay?” He bites his lip in an effort to keep his mouth shut about the fabulous fanfic that’s ninety percent of the reason he read the damn thing in the first place. “ _Anyway_ , it’s well known enough for her to be horrified, and the cover looks like a paranormal romance, so you can claim you had no idea what you were buying.”

Hot-guy takes the book from him and their fingers brush, slow and deliberate, sending goosebumps racing up Stiles’ arm. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he purrs in a tone that makes Stiles eternally grateful that his work khakis are on the baggy side. “This sounds absolutely perfect.”

He gives Stiles one last up-and-down glance before turning and heading for the register.

Stiles’ eyes lock on the man’s tight, perfect ass and he swallows hard. He can’t fight a longing sigh as he tucks the vision away for later.

His break is going to be so short, but hey, if this day ever ends he'll have some hot jerk-off fodder as a trade. He’s not gonna complain about that.

  


* * *

  


Peter would like to be anywhere but here. Well, not _here_ specifically—because he’s been told the coffee in this shop is decent—but here, as in Beacon Hills. 

He’s been dreaming of a sun-and-sand filled Christmas for months, but for the first time in ten years, despite his best efforts, he wasn’t able to escape somewhere tropical. 

Damn his sister for coercing him back here. 

He would like to formally state that everything about this “vacation” is terrible. First, instead of a lovely downtown hotel, he’s crammed into his old bedroom at the family house. On top of that, he has to play nice with his siblings and their families for the entire week. And worst of all, thanks to his sister’s bossy meddling, he’s been forced to join the shopping masses on the last weekend before Christmas.

Peter doesn’t _hate_ his family per se—he just prefers to keep drawn-out interactions with them to a minimum. Especially this time of year. Hell, he’s only been in town a day and a half, and he’s already been fussed at twice for not “Christmasing” correctly.

Peter eyes the slow-moving cafe line in front of him, then pulls out his phone and shoots off a text.

 _Why the hell did I agree to this?_

He doesn’t bother returning the device to his pocket. It buzzes almost immediately.

_Talia called you before coffee, while you were still in bed with the flavor of the weekend. You’re downright charitable when you’ve just had your cock sucked._

Peter gives his phone a dirty look. _Now that’s just rude._

_Oh, really? What was it you gave the boy who blew you at that event last month?_

Peter sighs. _God, I hate you. I don’t know why we’re friends._ He waits almost a full minute but doesn’t get a response until he caves. _They were extras. And he had a god-given gift. It deserved a reward._

_It was some reward. Face it, Peter. Getting off makes you less of a bastard. You’d be a perfect sugar-daddy—if you kept them more than one night._

Peter glares at the text, then hits “call.” This requires the nuance of tone—eavesdroppers be damned.

Chris is chuckling when he picks up. 

“I have ways to make you regret everything you’re thinking right now,” Peter growls, as if threatening the bastard ever works.

“Fashion Week, Peter. You gave your bathroom hook-up tickets to Fashion Week.”

“It’s one runway show and a backstage pass. I’m not flying him to Paris, and I definitely don’t have plans to see him again.”

“Of course you don’t. You’re the master of the parting gift.”

“Gifts,” Peter sneers, shifting his phone to trap it against his shoulder and pull out his wallet. He’s getting closer to the front of the line. “Can you believe money isn’t acceptable for Christmas anymore? Now I have to buy ‘things that require effort’.”

“That’s gonna backfire spectacularly.” 

Peter presses his free hand to his chest. “I’m touched that you know me so well.”

“You’re ‘touched’ alright,” Chris makes a sound that Peter knows is accompanied by a long-suffering eye roll. “What did you do?”

“I’ll have you know I got Talia a lovely book.”

“Is it the Gay Kama-Sutra?”

Peter barks out a laugh, some of his annoyance unraveling for the first time since he left the house that morning. This is why he still talks to this guy, best friend, or no. “No. But now I need to make another trip to the bookstore.”

“Just don’t tell her it was my idea. I like my balls right where they are.”

It’s not a bad idea, actually. And if he’s lucky, maybe the cute twink will be working. Peter would enjoy seeing his reaction to that book request. 

Even after a ten-year leave of absence, Beacon Hills is disappointingly lacking in Peter’s kind of entertainment. Bookstore-twink—Peter’s a little miffed he wasn’t wearing a nametag during their encounter—was the best thing he’s come across since he got to town. He wouldn’t mind taking that one home for a night of fun—if home didn’t currently include his siblings, their spouses, and all of his various nieces and nephews. 

The house is big enough for everyone to visit comfortably, but the boy looked like a screamer. It would have ended poorly.

Peter hangs up with Chris when he finally reaches the counter—he may not have ever worked in customer service, but he knows better than to be _that guy._

“Medium latte with a pump of vanilla and an extra shot, please,” he tells the wide-eyed and slightly flustered barista. She jots the details of his order down on the side of the cup and slides it to a tall, lanky young man who—with killer cheekbones and a mop of blond curls—could easily pass for a model. 

Peter’s work-brain immediately starts dressing him in some of the newer styles that have come across his desk. 

A drawback of working in fashion. He can’t turn it off.

The cafe is busy, the tables filled, customers milling while the two employees scramble to fill orders. Honestly, they seem a little understaffed for such a busy weekend, and Peter is starting to regret his impulsive stop. This might take a while.

He steps down to the other end of the bar to wait, taking a minute to sort through a few emails. It might be Sunday, but everything he does now is one less thing his personal assistant will put on his list later.

He’s distracted from his inbox when the door to the back of the store flies open and a slim figure bursts through, still in the process of tying an apron on. “Kira! Isaac! I’m here to rescue you!”

The girl-barista—Kira he assumes—flashes the new arrival a mega-watt smile. Model-boy—Isaac—mutters a distracted “aren't you a little short for a Stormtrooper?” as his hands continue to fly over the espresso machine, pulling shots and steaming milk.

Peter smirks, amused.

“Holy shit, you guys are in the weeds,” the new kid announces, unknowingly echoing Peter’s earlier thoughts as he dives into work, snagging a stack of unstarted drinks and adding syrups to them. Peter’s eyes track the flurry of movement with interest.

New-kid is a fashion disaster with a beanie pulled over his dark hair, hipster-typical, dark-rimmed glasses, and layers of very unfortunate plaid. His worn skinny jeans—that nevertheless mold beautifully to his thighs—are the only thing worth mentioning. 

His voice is what snags Peter’s attention and makes him pause to look closer. 

The glasses throw him off for a moment, but the mole-dotted, pale skin and the wide, laughing mouth finally let him connect the dots.

Apparently, his bookstore-twink has a second job. Peter’s lips curl up, pleased by the coincidence.

“Latte for Peter?”

His name pulls Peter away from the enticing daydream of just what might be hiding under all those horrible layers. As he steps forward for his drink, a heavyset man—in an ill-filling, off-the-rack suit from five years ago—reaches past him and grabs it. 

Peter’s eyebrows shoot up, but before he can protest the man takes a sip and his face pinches in displeasure.

“This isn’t a Caramel Macchiato!” bad-suit squawks. He slams the cup back down hard enough that the lid pops off and hot coffee explodes in an arc across the counter, coming perilously close to Peter’s _Berluti_ dress shoes.

Isaac skitters back, wide-eyed, his shoulders hunching. “Oh—I—uh—”

Peter’s bookstore-twink is suddenly there, between Isaac and the angry customer. “Oh damn! I’m _so_ sorry, sir.” He snags the cup off the counter and tugs down the cardboard sleeve. “I’ll get your drink remade right away—Peter.” He spins away, using the rapid movement to shuffle Isaac back towards the register. “I got this, can you help Kira?”

“I’m in a _rush_ ,” bad-suit whines, fists balled up like a child. Peter glances down, wondering if he’ll stamp his foot too.

“Of course, _Peter_ ,” bookstore-twink gushes. “I’ll have your vanilla latte ready in just a minute.”

The man freezes and Peter sees the dawning realization on his face.

“Let’s see,” Peter’s new favorite barista muses, loudly enough that everyone within ten feet of the counter can hear as he reads off the side of the cup. “You wanted one pump of vanilla, an extra shot of espresso, and soy milk. Right, _Peter_?” 

God, the snark on this boy is _beautiful_.

The rude customer—whose name obviously isn’t Peter—is quickly turning a blotchy red. He glances down at another cup, sitting innocuously in front of him on the counter.

Peter doesn’t bother to restrain the humor in his voice when he answers. “That’s right, sweetheart. Vanilla soy latte. And take your time, I’m happy to wait.”

The man grumbles something incomprehensible, then grabs the drink that’s actually his and slinks away to the chuckles of the observing patrons.

Bookstore-twink meets Peter’s eyes for the first time and his own go wide behind his dark-framed glasses. His mouth opens in a little “oh” of recognition.

“Hello, again.” Peter offers the boy his most charming smile.

The sweet thing ducks his head to hide his answering blush while his long-fingered hands move expertly to remake Peter’s drink. 

“Hey, stranger,” he quips, gifting Peter with a coy glance from below his lashes. His tongue darts out to slide over his full lower lip as his focus returns squarely to the steaming milk.

Peter takes in the way the little tease chews at the inside of his cheek and fights a smile. His honey-brown eyes make Peter want to tug his glasses from his face so he can get a better look, and Peter isn’t sure if he’d rather strip him down to his skinny jeans and dress him in something that will show him off, or just strip him in order to find all his sensitive places.

Peter tells the Chris-toned voice in his head that’s grumbling “not again” to fuck off. There’s nothing wrong with playing with a pretty-boy as long as everyone involved is having fun—and knows that playing is nothing like a commitment.

“Well, we don’t _have_ to be strangers, but you don’t seem to be a fan of name-tags.”

“What?” The boy slaps a hand over his heart, then flushes when he doesn’t encounter anything. “Crap.” He fishes in his apron pocket, but he can’t juggle the name-tag and the steaming milk he’s pouring. He luckily chooses the milk. 

The name-tag hits the floor and when he shifts his foot to catch it, he sends it skittering under the far counter. He sags with an embarrassed groan.

Peter blinks, startled by the unexpected, dramatic flailing, then chuckles. “I guess now we’ll never know.”

His bookstore-twink makes a sound suspiciously close to a snort and squirms with embarrassment. “I’m Stiles.” He pops the lid on the finished coffee and bites his lip briefly. His pretty brown eyes flick down to the cup and back up again before he holds it out. “And you’re Peter?

“I am.” Peter takes the new drink with a smile, then reaches out and tucks a couple bills into the front pocket of Stiles’ apron as a thank you—both for the drink, and the entertainment.

“Thanks?” Stiles licks his lips nervously and stares, gaze locked with Peter’s. 

If feels like it lasts longer than it probably does, then his coworker—overwhelmed by the ever-lengthening line—interrupts, shouting for assistance. 

Stiles flinches back into motion, head ducked, grinning as he starts filling orders again.

Peter takes a sip of his—perfect—latte and glances around for a place to sit, but the cafe is packed, all the tables taken, and he’s not willing to awkwardly hover. He’d like to talk to Stiles more—maybe see where the interest reflected back at him will take them—but he can always come back later. 

  


* * *

  


“I still say he’s trying to get in your pants.”

“Thanks so much, Isaac. It never occurred to me that he tipped me _a hundred bucks_ for something _other_ than my latte making skills!” Stiles rolls his eyes and tosses his rag in the bucket of cleaner a little too violently. 

He sighs and grabs it again to clean up the splashes. 

“Maybe he’s just feeling the holiday spirit?” Kira suggests, her sweetness strong in the face of Isaac and Stiles’ skepticism.

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, no. This is the same guy who was looking for presents his family will hate. I don’t think ‘Christmas Spirit’ is a thing he does.”

“But he didn’t give you his number or anything?” Kira asks, yet again.

Stiles shrugs. “Nope. Just the cash.” 

He’s not sure what he feels about that, to be honest. Because he sure as hell needs the money—he wouldn’t be working so much if he didn’t—but it's still weird. Maybe a little skeevy. Who just gives that kind of money to a stranger with no expectations? Stiles is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He finishes straightening up and tugs off his apron. “If you guys are good here, I’m gonna go try not to spill red wine on fancy people.”

Isaac frowns at him. “You’re at the restaurant tonight?”

Kira is wide-eyed and equally concerned. “Why didn’t you say something? We kept you here all afternoon.”

“Hey, money is money. I’ll take any shifts I can get. Besides, it’s only for another week and then I’m back at school.”

They make a few more noises about him working too hard, but he waves off the rest of their concern. Yes, of course, he’s exhausted all the time. He’s running on pure caffeine—good thing he works in a coffee shop, right? Anyway, it will all be okay in the end.

He pats Isaac on the back and kisses the top of Kira’s head, then heads out. He honestly appreciates the concern and knows some of it’s probably warranted. Isaac and Kira really are good friends. He ought to find time to hang with them outside of work, just as soon as he’s not so busy.

He regrets forgetting his coat at home this morning as he hurries down the street to his car. It’s gotten cold now that the sun is down. The holiday lights on main street sure are pretty, though. It makes the walk almost worth it.

Pulling out his phone, he checks the time, then snaps a picture for Insta. Good. If he hurries he has just long enough to swing by his dad’s. He can change clothes and shove some food in his face before his shift at the restaurant. 

Stiles thinks—not for the first time—that there should be a way to make it through college with only the normal amount of debt. He knew going in that there would be loans. He planned for it. But he wasn’t expecting the debt to pile up quite so quickly. Or for so many people to be screwing him over.

Like the financial aid office that decided halfway through the fall semester that they weren’t going to cover his off-campus housing while he completed his _mandatory_ , _unpaid_ spring internship. Because the internship he found requires forty hours a week, and Stiles can’t schedule enough classes around it to maintain his full-time status.

Part-time status means part-time aid apparently.

And a full-time—did he mention _unpaid_ —internship, plus classes, also means having to quit the nights-and-weekends restaurant job that covered his expenses for the last two and a half years.

Which is what led to Stiles working his ass off all of winter break, trying to scrape together enough money to pay his landlord—something that has to be done at the beginning of each semester—because “off-campus” doesn’t mean he gets treated like an actual adult. 

Apparently, college kids can’t be trusted to pay their bills on time. Who woulda thunk?

Under the looming threat of homelessness, Stiles called every single one of his old high-school bosses. The bookstore and the cafe were happy to have him back during the holiday rush, and he got extra lucky when his buddy Danny needed someone to cover his restaurant shifts while he’s away visiting family.

A good night at the restaurant pays more in tips than the other two jobs combined, even if he doesn’t get the really nice shifts, like Saturday nights—those are for the servers with seniority. He did pick up Christmas Eve because even though it pays well, no one really wants to work until late when they could be home with their families.

He’s damn proud of himself, really. Over the course of the five-week break—he came home early because his finals were all projects that didn’t require him to be in person—he’s managed to make just enough to cover rent and groceries for the next three months. He’ll have to figure something else out for the spring, but that’s three months away, and he’s going to celebrate his wins while he has them.

The Beacon Inn is packed for a Sunday night. That’s mostly due to the jazz band that’s playing—holiday-themed of course, because Stiles can’t stop losing _Whamageddon_ this year. He's assigned to all the bar two-tops. They’re running him off his feet, but he’s also too busy to notice how tired he is.

He’s just swung by with another round for the big, daddy-looking bears in the corner that have been flirting with him non-stop since they came in—he’s apparently rocking the hipster-twink look in his old glasses—when the manager snags him.

“I just sat two in the dining room. Can you take them?”

Stiles glances around. His tables are all settled with full drinks and plenty of bar-snacks. He can handle one more. And dinner customers equal bigger tabs which means more money in his pocket.

He ducks into the main room and snags a water pitcher and bread for the table. The couple is seated near the window with a great view of the street. It’s a prime spot and—as ridiculous as it sounds—will probably lead to an even better tip for Stiles. Sometimes it really is location, location, location.

“Hey,” Stiles says with an upbeat smile as he approaches the table. “Welcome to—Bea—Beacon Inn—” He fumbles and stalls, gaping. 

Peter—his hot bookstore-guy—somehow he’s here. He’s in Stiles’ restaurant—well, really Danny’s restaurant, but semantics—either way, he’s on the opposite side of town from the last place Stiles saw him. And not only that, but he’s in Stiles' section—all casual—like it’s no big deal.

Stiles can’t be blamed if he stares a little and forgets how words work. 

Peter arches an eyebrow, obviously questioning his mental health.

Stiles is questioning it too, to be honest. He’s also wondering where his sudden suit-kink came from—because _fuck,_ a fancy vest over an open-collared button-down should not be this hot. His mouth works silently as he searches for words that aren’t a request to lick Peter’s thick, gorgeous neck.

It takes him way too long to notice the beautiful woman sitting across the table from the asshole that’s stolen his entire attention.

She looks just as fancied up as Peter in a blouse and skirt combo, her long dark hair loose around her shoulders. She turns and gives Stiles a polite smile, kindly ignoring the way he’s frozen like a startled deer. “Hi there.” She smooths out her skirt and folds her hands in her lap expectantly. She’s not wearing a ring.

 _Date night_. Stiles’ rude brain supplies, something uncomfortable twisting in his gut. “I—can I—” He clears his throat and starts again. “Can I start you off with something to drink?”

They order a fancy bottle of wine like they’re celebrating something. Peter is still eyeing him with curiosity. His date, thankfully, seems oblivious to the attention as she scans the menu.

Stiles somehow manages to rattle off the night’s specials before he flees, his face burning and his heart pounding painfully. 

This is stupid. He needs to get it together.

Yes, he may have entertained the idea that Peter was flirting with him. He can’t be blamed for that, the man practically purrs when he talks. Stiles is allowed to be disappointed that he was wrong. What he’s not allowed to do is fuck over a table that has a good chance of leaving him a fantastic tip.

Stiles breathes and makes a loop through the bar, clearing a few empty glasses, then heads back to take Peter and his date’s order, determined to be the best server they’ve ever encountered.

Peter continues giving him odd looks and the occasional eye roll—possibly due to how over-the-top pleasant and helpful he’s being. Well, let him. Stiles has no intention of explaining himself.

He manages to hold it together until he’s making his way over after their food is delivered. He’s too far away to hear her words, but Peter’s date has her arm stretched across the table, one hand gently cupping Peter’s face. Peter’s lips are curled up in a soft smile as he accepts the intimate touch.

Stiles turns and flees back to the bar.

God, this sucks. He’s not usually like this. He jabs at the point-of-sale computer, sending a round of drinks through for one of his other tables. This is what he gets for letting his fucking hopes spiral out of hand. Men like Peter aren’t interested in guys like Stiles. 

Not that Stiles isn’t a catch. He objectively hot, and he knows he’s his own brand of awesome. He does just fine when he has time to date. And when he doesn’t there’s no shortage of hot dudes willing to swipe right for him.

This one just felt different.

“Stiles?”

Stiles bristles but keeps entering orders into the POS—and oh, the irony of the point-of-sale having that acronym—trying to pretend he doesn’t recognize the voice or his name.

“Stiles.” He’s too close to ignore now.

“Can I help you, sir?” Stiles forces out sweetly, keeping his eyes locked on the screen.

Peter huffs. He’s close enough that Stiles imagines he feels the puff of air on the back of his neck. “Really? Is that how you want to play this?”

Annoyance wells up past the—probably unwarranted—hurt and Stiles turns to face him. “Fine." He scowls at the man’s stupidly perfect face. “Are you _stalking_ me?” He plants his hands on his hips and pulls his shoulders back. “Because this isn’t funny anymore.”

“Stalking—” Peter rolls his eyes. “Do I look like the type of man that needs to stalk someone, sweetheart?”

Stiles takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he can’t go off on a customer—even a conceited asshole customer—and also, he still needs to earn his tip. “Sorry. Look, Peter.” He gestures to the room. “I’m really slammed here. Was there something you and your friend needed?” He glances past Peter’s broad—distracting—shoulder and sees his table of daddy-bears trying to flag him down.

“She’s not my—”

“Great,” Stiles cuts him off and side-steps around him, heading for the customers that actually _need_ something. “I hope you both enjoy your meal.”

He hears Peter sigh but doesn’t let it stop him. He’s got daddy-bears to take care of, and maybe a little flirting—the actually harmless kind—will cheer him up. 

Stilesspends the rest of the night moving as quickly as possible between tables and refusing eye-contact with any and everyone in the direction of the dining room—all while keeping a bright, fake grin on his face. 

He drops Peter and his date's check off, gushes a little over how _lovely_ it was to serve them, and how he hopes they have a _wonderful_ evening. He’s not quite far away enough to miss the woman’s annoyed, “Peter, what did you _do_?” as he flees for the final time.

He misses the answer and he waits until long after they’re gone to collect the bill.

When he sees the two hundred dollar tip he doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

  


* * *

  


Talia is either going through a mid-life crisis, or she’s developed empty-nest syndrome despite two of her adult children still living at home. Peter can’t think of any other reason that she would have gone out and bought a ridiculous, designer dog.

What the hell even _is_ a “Pomsky?”

All he knows is that it looks like someone hit a Husky with a shrinking-ray. There’s something so wrong about taking a working dog and miniaturizing it.

Peter might have a career in fashion, but he maintains the “designer” label is for clothes, and not anything that needs to be kept alive. Because in his experience, “designer” means “high-maintenance”.

Chili is no exception. Talia got caught up at work, so for some reason, Peter is the one picking the furball up from his bi-weekly grooming appointment at the animal clinic.

Peter leans on the front desk and taps his fingers against the glass countertop in bored rhythm, vaguely following along with the omnipresent holiday music as he waits for the floppy-haired vet tech to return with his temporary charge. It’s been at least ten minutes and he’s running out of patience.

The waiting room is slowly emptying out of yappy animals—it’s apparently the last day for check-ups before Dr. Deaton closes shop for the holidays. The Beacon Hills Animal Clinic staff is getting ten days of paid vacation. Peter knows all of this because the floppy-haired vet tech is very much an over-sharer—and was enthusiastically describing his vacation to the person in front of Peter in line. Scott’s apparently getting on a plane to San Diego just as soon as his last patient is picked up.

That’s five minutes of his life Peter is never getting back. 

Honestly, Peter is done with this whole day. He’s been out shopping since noon and he’s exhausted. He thought gag-gifts for his family would be easy, but—unless he wants to take Chris’ suggestion and just hit up the nearest sex-shop—they are going to take some planning. Effort. Just like Talia wanted. Peter thinks he’s probably backed himself into a corner with this plan, but he’s much too invested to give up now.

Though possibly, he needs some outside input. He debates asking Cora. She would absolutely be on board for gag-gift shopping, but she’s also terrible at keeping her mouth shut. It’s a thought anyway.

He’s still frowning into space when the door to the back of the clinic swings open behind him.

“Hi, Peter. Chili’s ready for you.”

Peter’s head whips around so fast that his neck cracks. His jaw drops and he flat out stares at Stiles, who for some ungodly reason is dressed in blue scrubs, holding Talia’s purse-dog, and smiling pleasantly.

Peter has no words.

Alright, he has plenty of words, but Talia will be pissy if he gets them banned from the best—only—animal clinic in town, so Peter bites down on them. 

“Would you like to schedule the next appointment now, or should we wait for your sister to do it?” Stiles asks.

“Is this a joke?”

Stiles raises a judgemental eyebrow at him. “Suit yourself. But we have a limited number of slots during the holidays. It’s better to book in advance.”

Peter knows he’s being punished. He saw the way Stiles looked at Talia during dinner and he’s not an idiot. He would have happily cleared up the misunderstanding if Stiles had given him two minutes to talk, but the boy was too damn stubborn.

“Stiles—”

Stiles’ jaw ticks and his cheeks go a little pink, but he holds onto his pleasantly blank expression as he sets Chili down and holds out the leash.

Peter reaches out, but bypasses it and closes his hand over Stiles’ warm skin. He gives a little squeeze, then slips the lead from Stiles’ hold and tugs the dog to his side.

Stiles steps back, mouth held in a perfect customer service smile. The brat doesn’t so much as twitch or hint that anything strange is going on. It’s actually impressive. “Alright then. Have a nice day. Bye, Chili.” He waves to the dog.

Peter continues to stare. There’s no way all of this is a coincidence. There’s no way—even in a town as small as Beacon Hills—he could run across one perfect boy so many times in such a short period. 

But if he’s going to figure this out—without running his boy off—Peter needs to make a strategic retreat. It’ll be fine. He has a feeling their paths will cross again soon.

  


* * *

  


Stiles keeps it together until he hears Peter’s car door shut—then he loses his shit, doubled over, laughing so hard he’s wheezing and tears are rolling down his face.

Scott sticks his head through the swinging door, attempting to hide his shirtlessness. “Dude. Do you need to borrow my inhaler? Also, can I get my scrubs back? It’s freezing in here.”

Stiles waves him over and tugs the scrub top over his head, tossing it to Scott. He has a t-shirt on underneath—there wasn’t enough time to change completely after he heard Peter’s voice and had his brilliant epiphany. And _god,_ Peter’s _face_.

“Dude,” Stiles gasps, laughter starting up again. “ _Dude_ , did you see his _face_?”

“No.” Scott pouts. “I was _hiding_. Because you _stole my shirt_.” He dresses quickly, snagging a hoodie from the back of the door to throw on top. 

Stiles might be cold if he ever stops laughing, but for now, he’s warm to the core. “We can cancel Christmas.” He collapses into the receptionist chair and sends it spinning around and around as he grins at the ceiling. “I’m not getting a better present than that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look, that asshole showed up at all three of my jobs last weekend and it was really freaking annoying. I saw an amazing opportunity and I took it.”

“That’s super creepy. Is he stalking you? Do you want me to say something to his sister?” Scott is giving him worried-puppy-face, but Stiles waves the concern off. 

“Nah, man. It’s fine. I can totally handle him.” Stiles has a plan now, and with the way things have been going, he doesn’t think he’ll have to wait long to put it into action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is plotted to the end and I'm determined to get it done quickly. Wish me luck!
> 
> Come hang out with me on Tumblr! [shey-elizabeth](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/). I post WiP updates and a lot of Chris and Peter being Daddy AF.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this one. It ended up being longer than expected. Please enjoy the ridiculous fluff! (Seriously, it's so fluffy. There's a reason this is called "Sugarcoated.")
> 
> Thank you as always to Twisted_Mind for cheerleading, brainstorming, and being an awesome elf!

With his door shut and his earbuds in, Peter spends Tuesday morning holed up in his room at the house, going over layouts for the May book. It’s become natural over the years to think about summer fashion in December—it doesn’t hurt that he’s usually doing it from a beach with the soundtrack of crashing waves. There’s an odd dissonance in designing a campaign filled with the hottest swimwear trends while surrounded by the scent of pine trees and sugar cookies.

Maybe he should download an ambient noise app.

There’s a sharp bang on his bedroom door and Peter sighs. Or, he should insist on a hotel room, if only to limit the interruptions. Cora pokes her head in before he can respond to her pounding.

“Hey. Gimme a ride to the mall.”

He wrinkles his nose at the thought. It would take bribery or extortion to make him want to brave the mall two days before Christmas. And besides, “Don’t you have a car?”

She shifts impatiently. “Technically it’s mom’s car, and I’m not allowed to drive it in populated places between Thanksgiving and New Years.” Peter waits until she huffs in exasperation. “There may have been a slight parking-spot-rage incident last Christmas.”

He rolls his eyes but his lips twitch. That’s actually just amusing enough to make him change his plans for the afternoon. Still, Cora’s lucky she’s his favorite. Out of all his many nieces and nephews, she reminds him the most of himself—a handful of years younger than her closest sibling and with ten years on her cousins. Peter remembers what it was like to be isolated in the middle all too well.

So he doesn’t give in to her demand, so much as he decides he might as well get the rest of his own shopping out of the way. He’s running out of days until Christmas. And if he’s going to the mall, it’s no trouble to give his favorite niece a ride. He can claim she owes him later.

They separate quickly once they arrive. She’s late to meet her boyfriend, and Peter needs a minute after the chaos of the parking garage—Cora’s parking lot rage was definitely justified. Peter nearly lost it himself after nearly thirty minutes of barely missed spots. The only reason they aren’t still circling is because Cora leapt out while they were halfway down an aisle, dove between two parked cars, and stood in an empty space until Peter could drive around. A few passing drivers cussed her out, but she gleefully gave them the finger and refused to budge until Peter could park.

Peter’s feeling altruistic because of it and offers to meet back up with her when they’re finished, but she’s got dinner-and-a-movie plans—which Peter fully expects are actually Netflix and chill plans. He doesn’t particularly want to know, but he’s also not judging.

The mall is a madhouse of last-minute shoppers, and Peter would pivot and walk right back out, but after all the trouble to get here he’s committed. He at least needs to make the Battle of the Parking Lot worthwhile. 

On top of the rushing masses and the oppressively cheery holiday music, it seems like the mall’s interior designer—and he’s using that term extremely loosely—decided this year’s theme was “sear the customer’s eyeballs”. The predominant colors are fuchsia and lime green. It’s like 2012 threw up everywhere, from the garlands over the entrance to the white-frosted trees surrounding the Santa display. Peter’s tempted to shield his eyes from the horror.

Instead, he heads to one of the directories, hoping he can map a route that will get him in and out as quickly as possible. Scanning the list of stores with a sinking feeling, he realizes he has no idea how to go about this. He fights down a flare of annoyance directed at his sister. Why couldn’t he just give money like every other year?

After some deliberation, he sets off towards the one and only toy store. He’s not cruel enough to buy gag-gifts for children, but he’s perfectly happy to get them something obnoxiously loud along with a year’s supply of batteries. 

He pauses outside the store, eyeing a display of electronic puppies that both bark with a high-pitched, mechanical squeak and jump in circles when he’s startled by a voice nearly in his ear.

“Can I help you find anything?”

Peter goes still. Then he turns—very slowly—to meet Stiles’ eyes. Stiles tilts his head and blinks at him, hands clasped innocently behind his back, his polite, customer-service smile on his face.

Peter catches the twitch of lips and flicker of wicked amusement before Stiles forces his expression into smooth pleasantness again. “Howlin’ Howie is very popular this year.” He gestures to one of the obnoxious toys—which howls in agreement.

Peter takes a step in Stiles’ direction, not sure what he plans to do, but—well, something involving his palm and a very red backside probably isn’t too far off.

Stiles’ mouth pinches as he fights not to laugh.

“You—” Peter growls, advancing. “Are a menace.”

Stiles’ pupils dilate and his cheeks darken as he backs away. “I don’t know what you’re—” He cuts off with a yelp when he bumps into a display of personalized Christmas ornaments, sending them swaying and clanking. 

Peter grabs his elbow to steady him before he makes things worse, then tugs him away from the potential for destruction. “Let’s try not to break anything, darling.” He maneuvers Stiles so his back is against the storefront window, then braces a hand next to his shoulder, caging him in.

For a moment Stiles seems caught between amusement and arousal, but he shakes it off and gives Peter a narrow look. “Watch it, Mr. Grabby-Hands.” He pokes Peter in the chest, then glares pointedly at the hand holding his elbow and the thumb unconsciously stroking worn-soft flannel.

Peter raises an eyebrow. Despite the complaint, Stiles isn’t trying to pull away. He’s flustered and squirming, a little disheveled—though that part isn’t anything Peter’s done—but he doesn’t resist Peter’s touch. Peter gets a thrill of satisfaction at the thought that Stiles enjoys some manhandling. 

“I’m just protecting the valuable merchandise.” He gives the boy a playful smirk. “We wouldn’t want—”

“Everything okay here, Stiles?” a gruff, authoritative voice breaks in from behind Peter.

Stiles freezes then flushes red. “Hey, Jim. Um—yes—totally fine.” His eyes dart from the person interrupting them, to Peter, and back again, lip caught between his teeth. Honestly, he couldn’t look more guilty if he tried, and they aren’t even doing anything wrong.

Peter glances at the man hovering off to the side, thumbs looped into his heavy belt. He’s older, probably in his late sixties or early seventies, with close-cropped grey hair and the look of muscles gone soft with age. He’s wearing a mall-security polo. Peter leans closer to Stiles and lowers his voice to a murmur. “Your bodyguard?”

Stiles snorts, lips twitching, and nudges Peter back a step, slipping out from between him and the window. “We’re all good. Totally.”

“Alright—” The mall-cop looks skeptical. “If you say so.” He shakes his head. “Just, keep in mind this is a family-friendly place, would you, kiddo?”

Stiles nods rapidly and tugs on the hem of his shirt, trying to smooth it—not that it does much good, it’s creased to the point that Peter wonders if he might have slept in it. “Course. Thanks.”

The guard ambles off and Peter turns back to Stiles with an expectant look. “So, the mall-cop knows you by name?”

Stiles barks out a startled laugh and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Jim’s a thirty-five-year veteran of the force. Retired. He does the seasonal thing around the holidays. Extra spending-money for the grandkids.”

“And you’re generally on a first-name basis with random, retired police officers?”

“Well, yeah. Don’t you know the names of your co-workers?”

Peter’s disbelieving stare lasts for several heartbeats before Stiles cracks, mirth twisting his features. He slaps a hand over his mouth but can’t stop the giggles from slipping free.

Peter’s stare narrows. “You—you little _shit_ —do _not_ work at the police station.”

The giggles quickly turn to outright cackling until Stiles is struggling to stay vertical. Peter hauls him across the walkway to a bench where Stiles drops down and buries his head in his hands, gasping for breath.

Eventually, he pulls himself together—red-faced, with tears in the corners of his eyes. “No. I don’t work at the station. My dad does.”

Peter hums and settles beside him, arm stretched along the back of the bench. “You obviously didn’t fake working at the cafe. Or at the restaurant.” Stiles gives him a stubborn little frown and shifts uncomfortably at the mention of the restaurant, but Peter presses on. “Please tell me I didn’t accost a random customer in a bookstore. That’s just tacky.”

The frown morphs into a reluctant smirk. “That would be hilarious, but no. I work there too. Not at the clinic—my BFF’s got that covered—and not, you know.” He waves at their general surroundings. 

Peter gives him a look of disbelief. Three jobs? “When do you sleep?”

Stiles snorts. “Not often enough. It’s just seasonal though, while I’m on winter break. I can sleep in January.”

Well, that little tidbit fills in a few holes and doesn’t satisfy even a fraction of Peter’s curiosity. 

Stiles wipes his palms on his thighs and his eyes shift like he’s contemplating leaving. “Well, this has been hilarious and strange, but I should get going.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Stiles lets out a frustrated huff and angles his body away from Peter. “Look, I don’t know how things work in your world, but in mine, I don’t go after guys that are taken. No matter how good looking they are, or,” he wrinkles his nose, “how much money they throw at me.”

Interesting. Peter’s going to come back to the second part of that later. First things first. “Why on earth do you think I’m taken?” 

This time Stiles goes to stand but Peter reaches out and snags a narrow wrist, holding him loosely. 

Stiles stills at the contact and looks back. “You looked pretty lovey-dovey with your date at dinner. So unless you broke up in the last two days. . .” He trails off and averts his eyes again, chewing on his lower lip.

“Hmm.” Peter strokes his thumb over the fragile veins in his grip, drawing a shiver. “I don’t know if I should be more offended that you think I would cheat on my significant other, or that you think I’m straight.”

Stiles scoffs. “Bisexuality is a thing that exists.”

“Of course. But it’s also a thing I’m decidedly _not_. If you had asked, my sister would have laughed herself sick. She loves to reminisce about how I was going to marry George Clooney when I was four.”

“Your—”

“Sister. Dark hair, condescending grimace, coerced me into taking her to dinner the other night? Surely you remember her.” 

Stiles makes a mortified sound, lifts his free arm, and tries to hide in the crook of his elbow. “Oh my god. Just kill me now,” he groans into his sleeve.

Peter has to laugh. “That’s a little dramatic.” He tugs until the ridiculous boy frees his flushed face from its hiding place. “Why don’t you make it up to me instead?”

Stiles eyes him, skeptical but with an undercurrent of something like hope. “I—think I need details before I agree to that.”

Peter gives Stiles his best leer, enjoying the squirming it causes. He really is very cute. “Help me with the rest of my Christmas shopping.”

The tempting, red-bitten mouth twitches. Stiles glances to the toy store with it’s yapping electronic dogs, then back to Peter again. “Are you still looking for things your family will hate?”

“I suppose.” Peter shrugs, unconcerned. “I’m not terrible enough to want the children to dislike their gifts. Their parents on the other hand. . .” He gives Stiles a wide grin. “Let’s just say, I’m hoping this will be the last year I’m ordered home for the holidays.”

Stiles blinks and licks his lips, his eyes lingering on Peter’s mouth. “Um.” He shakes himself a little. “I’d be up for that. If you want.”

“Excellent.” Peter only barely keeps his more inappropriate responses internal—he’s loath to scare Stiles away now that they’re finally getting somewhere. He shifts his grip to Stiles’ elbow and stands, pulling the boy with him. Stiles follows easily and Peter feels that little flare of satisfaction again. “Now, what’s the worst gift someone could give?” 

Stiles doesn’t hesitate. “Surprise car.”

That makes Peter pause. “A car?”

“Yeah. Like in all the commercials.” He drops his voice to something all-American and wholesome. “Look, honey, I went and made a massive financial decision without consulting you.” He makes a sweeping gesture. “I even put a giant red bow on it to distract you from the fact that I’m a presumptuous asshole.”

Peter chuckles. It never would have occurred to him—money hasn’t ever been much of a concern for the Hale’s—but he can see Stiles’ point. “You’ve put some thought into this.”

“Well, yeah. Those commercials are dumb, and it’s a shitty standard to hold gift-giving to. You don’t have to spend a ton to get someone a nice gift. And don’t even get me started on diamonds.”

“Maybe next time.” Peter smiles at the way Stiles blushes and ducks his head. “So, cars and diamonds go on the terrible gifts list. What do you suggest for three children under the age of ten?”

  


* * *

  


Shopping with Peter is _fun_. They choose a cute but yappy electronic dog for Peter’s youngest nephew, then hit up the video game section for the older two. Peter insists that he didn’t really have a budget in mind, so the lucky devils get shiny-new Nintendo Switches. Apparently, their mother is the “go play outside” type, so she’s going to be livid, but the kids will be in heaven. Stiles declares Peter the Best Uncle, then laughs at the resulting preening.

The toys purchased, they head out into the mall and Stiles gets to show off his preternatural ability to stumble across the strangest shit—things no sane marketing director should have ever approved. His best find is a yard decoration featuring a little girl, a creepy snowman, and a sign that reads “Santa I’ve been a good girl please stop”. It’s horrifyingly awkward.

Peter buys it with a devilish grin and a promise that it’s the perfect addition to his sister’s festive holiday display. 

As near as Stiles can tell, Peter doesn’t have a personal-space bubble—as proven by the hand that keeps touching the small of his back, steering him through the crowds or pointing him towards a new store. It’s heady and distracting, setting off sparks under Stiles’ skin and making him ache to be closer. He holds himself in check though. There’s still a _small_ chance he’s reading this wrong, and if he is, he wants as much time with Peter as he can get before things go awkward.

The shopping bags are starting to feel heavy and Stiles’ five a.m. cafe shift is catching up with him when they pass one of the ubiquitous mall Starbucks. He inhales the sweet, sweet aroma and suppresses a sigh of longing. He’s so tired these days and despite having several cups of precious, precious coffee over the course of the morning it’s never enough.

“Did you want coffee?”

Stiles blinks, surprised Peter noticed his wandering gaze, and nibbles on his lip. “I mean, always. I’ve been awake for a million hours. But I can wait until I get home.”

Peter changes directions, getting in the shockingly short line for drinks.

Stiles tries to step off to the side but is caught and drawn back by Peter’s hand on his arm. “Peter, I’m fine, really.” Besides, Starbucks is totally overpriced and he doesn’t get an employee discount here.

“Let me buy you a drink. As a thank you for all your help.” Peter’s hand squeezes in encouragement, his lips curled up in a half-smile.

Stiles fights the urge to lean into the touch. “Honestly, I’ve had like four cups already, I should probably be cut off.”

“Really?” Peter frowns. “And you aren’t vibrating out of your skin?”

Stiles shrugs. “ADHD. It actually helps me focus, but there’s a limit.”

Peter hums and when they reach the front of the line he orders Stiles a hot chocolate instead. Stiles huffs at him, amused and annoyed in equal measure at the high-handedness. He snags Peter’s Americano as soon as it’s set on the counter. 

Peter raises an eyebrow at him. 

Stiles smirks and pulls a Sharpie out of his pocket.

Peter blinks. “Why. . .” He trails off.

“Occupational hazard” is the only explanation Stiles offers. With a few quick lines, he turns the innocent pair of mittens on the side of the cup into hands gripping spread ass cheeks. Snickering, he twists the cup and holds it out to Peter.

Peter chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes Stiles’ insides go warm and squirmy. He takes the cup and eyes the ass-mittens. “Are you implying something, sweetheart?”

Stiles’ cheeks heat, because he actually _wasn’t_ , he just wanted to make Peter laugh. “No,” he says quickly, fishing out his phone. “I just—I saw it and thought the internet needed to know.”

He points the camera at Peter who obliges by turning the cup so Stiles can photograph his art. After a few adjustments to the angle to get the perfect Instagrammable photo, Stiles turns away to wait for his own drink. He’s halfway through posting when he pauses. “Is this okay? You’re in it.”

Peter steps up behind him to look over his shoulder, so close Stiles can feel heat radiating against his back.

“Perfectly fine,” Peter murmurs, breath ghosting across Stiles’ jaw.

Stiles swallows hard and shivers. He adds a few distracted hashtags before throwing the image up on his feed. “Okay, good. Great, thanks.” He tries not to squirm.

Stiles hot chocolate comes up—finally—and he grabs it before anyone else can. He’s learned that lesson well. Peter reaches past him and drops a couple bucks in the tip jar, getting a heartfelt “thank you” from the baristas.

As they leave, Peter’s free hand—he’s got his shopping bags and drink in the other—lands on the small of Stiles’ back again. Stiles doesn’t stop himself from leaning into it this time.

The hand stays, heating Stiles’ skin to the point of distraction as they wander the mall, sipping their drinks and making fun of the more outrageous decorations. There’s a topiary reindeer with a freaking _Christmas tree_ for a tail that makes Stiles snort and upload another photo to Instagram with the hashtag _#hopeheusedlube_.

As they stroll past Santa’s village, Stiles is hit with a sweet wave of nostalgia. He remembers waiting anxiously in that line as a kid, equal parts eager to tell Santa what he wanted for Christmas, and nervous that Santa would know all about the glitter-glue he put in Jackson’s shoes during Kindergarten nap-time. 

Turns out, well-deserved revenge didn’t put you on the naughty list. Lucky for Stiles, not so much for future elementary school bullies.

“Have you been a good boy, Stiles?” Peter’s purred question jerks him out of his thoughts and sends tingles racing down his spine; Peter can’t possibly know what that phrase does to him. “Did you want to go sit on Santa’s lap? I’m sure it would make the old man’s day,” he teases, eyes sparkling.

Stiles squeaks and sputters as his face flames. “Hell no, asshole.” He shoves at Peter, playfully, only to be caught and pulled close, tucked against Peter‘s side with a muscular arm draped over his shoulder. He can’t help but snuggle in, aiming a giddy smile at the floor as they continue to walk.

“Too bad. A cute boy like you would look good perched on a man’s knee.”

Stiles sputters some more and tries to throw the teasing back at Peter before he drowns in embarrassment. “Sorry, Daddy. That’s not my kink.” He may have a weakness for being called a “good boy” but that’s as far as the fantasy goes. Really.

Peter’s breath hitches. “Cheeky brat,” he murmurs, lips brushing Stiles’ ear.

Stiles snickers at the successful revenge, even as he shivers and presses closer. 

“So you aren’t at the mall to see Santa. Am I keeping you from your Christmas shopping?” Peter asks.

Stiles shrugs, unconcerned. “Nah, it’s cool. The holidays are low-key for us. My best buddy Scott and I did our exchange last night, and Dad and I decided to skip it this year.” Stiles honestly doesn’t mind having a quiet holiday. He’s glad Scott’s getting serious with his girlfriend, and he had his dad and Melissa at Thanksgiving—it’s cute how the two of them arrange their working holidays to match up. Stiles’ gift to himself is going to be sleeping the entire day away.

Peter hums in understanding. “So you braved the mall two days before Christmas when you didn’t have to? That sounds like a form of insanity.”

Stiles snorts. Peter’s not wrong. “I was dropping off a friend and decided to take advantage of the sales.” He gestures to a big red 50% off sign in front of the store they’re passing. “I’ve got an internship this spring so I need to stock up on ties and shit.” He shoots Peter a playful grin. “And since this random guy gave me a couple really nice tips this week, I’ve actually got cash to burn.”

Peter looks intrigued. “Really?” He loosens his hold enough to eye Stiles’ loose jeans and worn flannel. “Alright then. I can definitely help with that.”

Stiles tries to argue that he’ll take care of it later, but Peter isn’t hearing it. He has them detour through the parking garage to drop the shopping bags in Peter’s car—it’s very shiny, Stiles drools a little and catches the pride on Peter's face. 

When they’re back inside Stiles takes charge and firmly leads the way to one of the department stores. With some creativity, he hopes he can manage three shirts and two ties and still keep this splurge under a hundred bucks. If he wears a t-shirt underneath, three shirts should get him through a workweek. He’ll be doing laundry every weekend but that’s not the end of the world.

He grabs two different blue ones, and a white one off a clearance table to the left of the store entrance. The sizes look right and the fabric seems nice and sturdy. The “washable” sticker is what sells it—because _fuck_ dry-cleaning. 

“Is that your size?” Peter asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles responds. It’s close enough at least. He heads towards the ties, hoping to get this over with before Peter gets bored. He’s not ready for their day to be over and he’s sensing something like impatience from the man.

“What are these even made out of?” Peter asks, eyeing the colorful fabric.

“Hopefully something laundry-friendly.” Stiles narrows his eyes at the rows of ties. There are so many, it’s a little overwhelming. Holding up a red and blue striped one, he turns to Peter to get his opinion. He blinks at the pinched expression on Peter’s face, his stomach sinking.

“No.” Peter scowls. “ No, I’m sorry. I can’t do it.” He reaches out and takes the tie and pile of clothing from Stiles’ arms, tossing it carelessly on the table. “Come with me.” 

“Wait—what?” Stiles finds himself helpless to argue as a large, warm hand wraps firmly around his wrist and steals all of his resistance. He grumbles under his breath about domineering assholes as Peter pulls him out of the store and through the mall, but Peter seems unconcerned.

Stiles digs in his heels when they end up in a small but very fancy boutique store.

“Peter, no. I can’t afford the _socks_ in this place,” Stiles hisses, eyes darting. He ducks his head and pulls in his shoulders, convinced he’s going to damage something just by breathing on it wrong and he’ll be forced to sell his first-born to pay for it. 

“Don’t be absurd. I brought you here. I’m paying.”

Stiles boggles at him. “Are you _insane_?”

“According to my sister, or my therapist?” Peter smirks at him and Stiles can’t help but laugh. “Look, sweetheart, this is fun for me. I enjoy it.”

“You enjoy spending money on strangers?” Stiles repeats, skepticism coloring his words.

“We’re not strangers.” Peter steps closer, thumb tracing circles on the inside of Stiles’ wrist.

“You’re ridiculous.” Stiles ducks his head. Fighting a blush, he speaks to Peter’s shiny leather shoes. “This isn’t normal. People don’t just _do_ this.”

“Where’s the fun in ‘normal’?” Peter cups Stiles’ jaw with his free hand and tips it up until their gazes meet. “Humor me.”

Stiles gets a little lost in his eyes and—even though he doesn’t mean to—finds himself agreeing. “You better not make me try on anything weird.”

Peter does a poor job of hiding his triumph behind something more serious. “I’ll have you know, people pay me a lot of money to tell them what to wear.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “What are you, a personal shopper or something?”

“Or something,” Peter says, desert-dry as he steers them to the nearest display. “What size are you?”

“Uhh—” Stiles grabs the back of his t-shirt collar and twists around, spinning in a little circle as he tries to glimpse the letters printed there. “Maybe a large?” He can almost make it out if he squints one eye closed.

Peter’s hands land on his shoulders, stilling him, before pushing his flannel and hoodie down his arms until they catch at his wrists.

“What—ack!” Stiles squawks and flails. “Why are you _stripping me_?”

“I’m not,” Peter huffs in frustration. “Hold still, you ridiculous thing.” He grips the tangled fabric until Stiles stops squirming. “I can’t see with all of this in the way. Why are you wearing four layers?”

“It’s winter!” Stiles gasps when Peter’s hands close around his ribs and slide firmly down to his hips. “Oh my _god_ ,” he whines, his entire body prickling with sudden awareness.

Peter is standing so close that Stiles can pick out flecks of grey in his gorgeous blue eyes. His warm, broad hands span Stiles’ waist as he looks him up and down critically. “How can you not know what you are? And don’t tell me you do, because you’re not wearing a single thing that fits.”

It takes Stiles much too long to overcome his stunned-fish impersonation and catch on. Peter’s got his shirts pulled tight around his torso. Peter’s not feeling him up, he’s trying to gauge Stiles’ size.

“You look like a thirty-two.”

Stiles makes a noise he refuses to call a whimper. “Uh. . . Yeah—sure.” If Peter doesn’t take a step back there is going to be a situation in Stiles’ pants that will make trying on clothes extremely awkward.

Peter—the bastard—leans closer, then reaches behind Stiles and flips the waistband of his jeans inside out, grunting in disapproval. “Then why are you wearing a thirty-six?”

“A—a thirty-six?” Stiles gapes. He can’t look away from the corded muscles of Peter’s neck. He wants to taste him. What is even happening right now? “I don’t—they were on sale?”

Peter mutters disparagingly under his breath but finally releases Stiles and walks to the nearest display of t-shirts. “It’s a good thing I’m here.”

Stiles trips after him, flustered and off-balance as he struggles back into his tangled hoodie and flannel. “But I—uh—I have plenty of t-shirts. I need work stuff.” 

Peter gives him an unimpressed look and holds out something that’s way too thin to survive a cafe shift. “Feel.”

Stiles stares for several heartbeats, then scrubs his fingers on his jeans before carefully reaching out. He gasps, stroking his fingers over the silky fabric. “It’s so _soft_.”

“It’s Pima.”

“Oh.” Stiles has no idea what the fuck that is. “I kind of love it.” He lifts the sleeve to rub the softness against his cheek. “Why do you know so much about this stuff?”

Peter tilts his head, humor dancing in his eyes. “Occupational hazard.”

Stiles laughs at having his own snark thrown back at him. “Fine, be mysterious.” Stiles will figure him out eventually.

Peter loads him down with t-shirts, dress shirts, pants, and jackets—there’s even a snazzy vest that reminds him of the one Peter wore to the restaurant—and steers him back to the fitting rooms. 

Stiles finds himself alone in a curtained off enclosure, staring down a mountain of clothing with no clue where to start.

“Try on the dark-indigo skinny-cut jeans,” Peter calls through the curtain. “They’re on top.”

Right. Pants. Stiles strips down to his underwear and pulls on the requested pair of pants. Thankfully, it’s a briefs day, because no way are boxers fitting under here; there’s hardly room for his junk in these.

He tugs at the dark-wash denim and jiggles his leg, trying to arrange everything so he’s not getting pinched. He’s not convinced they fit, no matter what Peter says about thirty-two or thirty-six or whatever. Okay, yeah, they’re ridiculously comfortable once they’re on, but they _cling_ , hugging his ass and thighs in a way that his normal skinny-jeans—which tend to sag—never do. His butt looks weirdly bubbly.

He twists around, trying to see his ass better. Stupid boujie fitting rooms with their no-mirrors. Stiles knows he’s supposed to leave the changing cubby and stand on the little raised platform so everyone can get a three-hundred-and-sixty-five-degree view of him, but he doesn’t _want_ to.

He pulls out his phone and is trying to angle it so he can see the back when Peter speaks from just outside the curtain. “Are you hiding in there?” 

Stiles jumps, nearly dropping his improvised mirror. He gets a blurry picture of the floor instead of anything useful. “ _No_.”

Peter starts to draw the curtain back and Stiles lunges to hold it closed, sticking his head through the gap. “I don’t think they fit. They’re too long and—and—” He stares at Peter, pleading.

Peter’s lips quirk up like Stiles is being cute. “Let me see, darling.”

Stiles backs up, reluctantly letting Peter in and resisting the absurd urge to cover his ass with his hands. 

Peter steps through the curtain and lets it swish shut behind him.

Stiles belatedly wishes he’d put on a shirt. He’s probably blushing all the way down his chest as Peter’s eyes rake over him. He presses his palms against his thighs so that he doesn’t do something dumb like cross his arms and hide. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous. He might not be ripped, but he does have some definition. He’s _lithe_. It’s a popular niche.

Peter lifts a finger and makes a rotating motion, intense gaze on Stiles’ lower half. “Turn.”

Stiles spins in an awkward circle. “See? They’re too tight. And they make my ass look weird." He stumbles over his feet a little. “And the hems are tripping me,” he adds unnecessarily.

“Your ass looks fantastic, sweetheart, and they’re long because you have to cuff them. They fit exactly the way they’re supposed to.”

Stiles huffs. “Yeah, well what do you know?” He twists and tries to use his phone as a mirror again.

Peter makes a sound like a growl and steals it.

“Hey!” Stiles grabs for it and trips over the dumb, uncuffed hems, straight into Peter’s chest. He squeaks but Peter catches him and wraps an arm around his waist, hauling them flush together, a hand pressed to Stiles’ back to keep him steady.

Stiles bites back a moan as he’s suddenly surrounded by heat, hard muscle, and Peter’s clean, masculine scent. His brain stalls.

Peter stretches out his free arm and a second later his phone makes the camera noise. “If you don’t believe me, ask your internet friends.” He hands the phone back, the picture he took filling the screen.

Stiles straightens reluctantly and takes it. “Oh.” For a spontaneous selfie in a bland fitting room, the way Stiles is pressed to Peter’s chest—one big, tanned hand spread against his pale, mole-speckled back, fingers brushing the waistband of the jeans—is actually pretty hot. And Peter’s right. The pants make his ass look fantastic. 

“I guess you might know what you’re talking about.”

Peter smirks and Stiles feels like he’s missed a joke. “Will you try on the rest of it now?”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “You’re like, some really important fashion guy, aren’t you?”

Peter chuckles. “Not the way you’re thinking.” 

“Are you a model? Is this going to be one of those things where I get laughed at for not recognizing you?”

“No one will laugh. Now, I want to see the white button-down with the vest. Tuck in the shirt, but don’t do up the sleeves.”

Stiles huffs at being shut down but nods. Peter steps back out of their curtained enclosure. 

Stiles has to take a few deep breaths and will his dick to behave before he can continue, because god, Peter smelled good. Felt good. Stiles is going to have spank-bank material for weeks.

When he finally steps out, Peter is waiting with a black skinny-tie. He loops it around Stiles’ neck and knots it with a few swift tugs. He tucks the ends into the vest and folds Stiles’ sleeves up to just below his elbows. Then Peter breaks Stiles’ brain by dropping down to one knee and fixing the cuffs of his pants for him.

Stiles swallows a sound that would be extremely embarrassing if it got out. Something like a desperate whimper. Because holy shit, Peter on his knees is not an image Stiles was prepared for. 

His brain is still disengaged when Peter stands and leads him to the platform in front of the mirrors. Stiles blinks himself out of his stupor and takes in his reflection.

Oh. He looks good. Somewhere between effortlessly-cool and actual, business-minded adult. He smoothes a palm over the lines of the vest and eyes the way it accentuates his broad shoulders and the narrowness of his waist.

“Yes,” Peter purrs in satisfaction. “This will do nicely.”

Stiles goes hot and squirmy at the tone. “Yeah. It’s great. I look—” He licks his lips, searching for the right word.

“If you say anything less than ‘stunning’ I’m going to be offended.”

Stiles snorts out a laugh, losing some of his weird tension. “I was gonna say ‘classy’.”

Peter smirks. “I suppose we’ll have to work up to it.” He shoos Stiles back to the cubby to try the next outfit.

Stiles kind of doesn’t want to admit it, but he finds himself actually enjoying this. Especially the part where Peter stands him in front of the mirror and tucks, folds, and adjusts everything until Stiles is “presentable.” Which somehow means transforming him from looking “good” into looking like he stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. It’s magic. But as mind-boggling as the results are, Peter standing behind him, deft hands moving over Stiles’ body while that smooth voice murmurs instructions in his ear is the best part.

Stiles could get used to this. He leans back slightly into Peter’s chest and tries not to turn into a quivering puddle of goo as Peter smoothes his shirt-tails into his pants. Who knew there’s a right and a wrong way to tuck in a shirt? Peter, apparently.

Peter finishes situating things and drops his chin to Stiles’ shoulder with a hum. His hands settle on Stiles’ hips. Eyes glittering under the tiny spotlights, he looks Stiles up and down in the mirror. “This one is a ‘yes’ I believe.” He tugs the bottom of the canvas motorcycle-style jacket to straighten it.

Stiles quirks a smile at him in their reflection. “That’s what you said about the last two. You’re going to have to pick one, Peter.”

Peter pats him on the chest then steps back up. Stiles instantly misses his warmth. “It’s cute that you still think this is an either-or situation.”

Stiles is already shaking his head. “No. No way.”

“How exactly do you plan to stop me?” Peter walks to the changing cubby and begins organizing the items he labeled “yeses”. 

“By—by paying you back. Eventually.” Stiles chews on the side of his thumb. This'll throw a huge wrench into that plan because, with a little time, Stiles could probably scrape together enough for one of these outfits, but the stack Peter is creating is miles out of his budget.

Peter stops, glances back, and looks him up and down, his eyes filled with something Stiles can’t decipher. “Sweetheart, believe me, the eye candy alone is _more_ than enough payment.”

Stiles scoffs. That’s a stretch, even for Peter. The fluttering in his gut erupts into full-on, anxious butterflies, making his heart race. “I’m sorry. I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”

“Hmm.” Peter turns to face him fully. “Well, we wouldn’t want you to feel indebted.” Peter tilts his head slightly, eyes lingering on Stiles’ mouth. “Maybe we could agree on a different form of payment.”

Stiles’ mouth goes dry and his eyes drop involuntarily to the front of Peter’s well-cut pants. Did Peter want— “Like what?”

“How about a kiss?”

Stiles’ gaze flicks back up to meet smiling blue eyes, then drifts down to Peter’s mouth. A kiss? Oh shit. He licks his lips. That’s like, not even a hardship. Would it really be okay to take something he wants and pretend it’s payment? This deal sounds like all benefits for Stiles and no downsides. “A kiss? Really?”

“If you want.” Peter’s expression is warm and a little teasing.

“Um—yeah.” Stiles steps forward, hesitates, then gets his act together and reaches up to cup Peter’s face with both hands. Peter’s stubble scratches deliciously against his palms and Stiles kinda wants to rub his cheek against it. 

His belly clenches when Peter’s hands settle on his hips, not directing, just resting. 

Stiles takes a steadying breath and closes the distance between them.

Peter’s lips are warm and softer than he expected, so what Stiles intended to be a short press of mouths lingers, damp and clinging.

Peter’s hands don’t move from where he put them, but he does tilt his head slightly, deepening the kiss for a moment, his tongue flicking out for the barest taste.

Stiles whimpers. He can’t help it. Sparks race across his skin and his brain tries to short-circuit under the hot-wet pressure. He pushes closer, chasing more.

Peter’s the one who breaks the kiss before Stiles can get too carried away. He shifts back slowly and puts space between them. Space that Stiles _really_ doesn’t want right now. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “But if we don’t stop now, I’m going to take much more than we agreed on.”

Stiles stares at him—jelly-limbed, brain melted— _wrecked_ from a single, nearly-chaste kiss.

Shit, he’s in so much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god you guys!!!! Gwen-of-Myth on Tumblr made me a [photoset!!!](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/post/639971463024214016/what-omg-how-i-did-not-see-this-its-so) It's so perfect you have to go check it out and give it some love! 
> 
> Also, 90% of the bizarre decorations Stiles mentions are from this ridiculous [post](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/post/640751703531159553/klubbhead-angelsandtaints-fucked-up-christmas) which seriously makes me cackle every time I see it!
> 
> Come hang out with me on Tumblr [shey-elizabeth](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/) for occasional updates and lots of drooling over Peter Hale's everything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PLEASE READ:** I’ve updated the tags and the chapter count. I wasn’t sure if this was going to have smut when I started, but it _absolutely_ does and tags have been adjusted accordingly. ;) And of course the added smut made things longer, so you all get a chapter 4 too! Bonus!
> 
> Extra love to Twisted_Mind for betaing/cheerleading the hell out of this fic. <3 <3 <3

If Stiles feels like he’s been working non-stop since he left the mall, it’s probably because he has. The two-day lead-up to Christmas has been a shit-show of call-outs, and he’s picked up back-to-back shifts at all three jobs with hardly enough time between them to shower and shove food in his face. 

Last night he was at the restaurant late, then spent the wee-hours waiting on a large party with no backup, an absentee bartender, and—when he checked after over an hour of waiting for food—no kitchen staff. He was desperately trying to assemble the ingredients for a daily special he couldn’t remember the name of when he jolted awake, gasping for breath, his heart trying to claw its way out of his chest. 

It should be fucking illegal to have nightmares about work. Especially when you have less than eight hours between shifts. The little sleep Stiles did get was anything but restful.

That auspicious start to his Christmas Eve led straight into a five-am-to-ten cafe shift and an eleven-to-four at the bookstore. The amount of coffee he drank to compensate means he’s well on his way to straight-up-delirious when he gets to the restaurant at four-thirty.

He collapses in a booth and pulls out his phone while the GM goes over the nightly specials. He has a few notifications but nothing urgent. On autopilot, he thumbs his way over to Instagram to check on his recent posts. 

The hilarious mall decorations are doing well—the reindeer has seventy likes, and the ass-mittens are up to nearly a hundred and fifty. That picture’s his favorite since it ended up also being a great shot of Peter.

Peter. Stiles sighs like a love-sick teenager—then glances around to make sure no one noticed. 

They’ve been texting off and on since the mall, but Stiles hasn’t had a free minute to meet up. He’s never regretted anything as much as his decision to work so many hours over break. Not that it was a real choice. His rent isn’t going to pay itself, and he’d like to eat more than cup-noodles for the next six months.

Still, it would have been nice to say yes when Peter asked him if he was free after their shopping adventure. Saying he had work, Peter’s taste still fresh on his lips, nearly killed him—literally, assuming blue-balls were deadly.

Two days and a lot of exhaustion later, that whole afternoon feels more like a dream than serving a twenty-top without a kitchen staff did. Stiles keeps eyeing the shopping bag sitting innocuously next to his suitcase—just one bag because he threatened an honest-to-god panic attack if Peter bought everything in his “yes” pile—waiting for the clothes to vanish. 

He finally got up the guts to wear some of it for his dinner shift tonight. The pants, his favorite, are the ones Peter called “deep-indigo.” He paired them with a soft green shirt that can’t decide if it’s a v-neck or a hoodie. He likes how it clings to the little bit of muscle definition he has. He’s also got the sleeves pushed up because if he learned one thing while Peter was dressing him, it’s that his forearms need to be shown off.

He’s kind of hoping that his forearms and his ass will get him some good tips tonight. Right after he thinks that he hears Scott’s voice in his head, worrying that Stiles is objectifying himself for money. Sweet summer child. Stiles hopes his bro never changes.

Stiles should send him the fitting-room picture, just to fuck with him.

In a moment of goofiness—and possibly delirium—Stiles posts it to Instagram instead, with the caption _Do these make my butt look big? #outofmypricerange #shoppingwithdaddy_

Then he puts his phone on “emergencies only” and starts his shift.

He can't guarantee it's the forearms—it's Christmas Eve after all and his tables are feeling generous—but he can’t discount them; either way, it ends up being his best night ever and his excitement almost overwhelms the exhaustion.

When he settles into the driver’s seat of the Jeep and checks Instagram again hours later, he grins. There’s a flood of replies and dozens of likes. Apparently, his four hundred and eighteen followers are partial to half-naked selfies. Shocker. 

Among the slew of emojis responses, he picks out comments from his friends.

 **mini_mjolnir** You look great! Is that Peter?

 **le_artemis_argent** Looking good! Love that brand!

 **jax.whitte** Not bad, Stilinski.

 **scarf_of_the_day** 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

 **scott.mccall** Um, dude. That’s not your dad??? 😮

 **thelydiamartin** CALL ME!!!

Stiles nearly chokes on his tongue when he gets to Scott’s comment. That’s even better than he hoped. Scott’s wounded-puppy face when Stiles explains daddy-kink is going to be _epic_. 

He’s got a handful of new followers and one of them has left a comment that lights him up with a rush of warmth.

 **6thavenuewolf** Are you fishing for compliments, baby boy?

There’s only one person that could be. Stiles clicks over to Peter’s profile, looking for something to tease him about, and cracks up when he sees his feed. Peter totally stole his photo and tagged it #prettyboy. Stiles has to respond.

 **@6thavenuewolf** You think I’m pretty, Daddy?

He drops his phone in the cup holder, flushed and grinning. God, he’s going to regret that comment later, but at the moment he can’t bring himself to care. And as much as he wants to spend the next hour giggling and stalking Peter’s photos, he needs to get home.

He rubs his hands over his face to wake up a little before he has to drive. It’s sharply cold in the cabin of the Jeep, but at this point, that might be the only thing keeping him awake. All he wants for Christmas is to sleep for ten hours and not have to get out of bed until his bladder demands it. 

He sighs and starts the car. Instagram distracted him long enough that he’s the last one in the parking lot. Luckily, despite some reluctant sputtering, the engine catches on the second try. He should take a look at it before he heads back to school. Hopefully, it’s something a little extra duct tape can fix.

It starts to sleet as he pulls onto the dark, deserted street—because of course, it does. He curses the weather gods. Cold and wet are his least favorite things. Also, the windshield wipers screech like dueling Pterodactyls and it’s really not good for his focus.

He’s fifteen minutes down the road and less than half of the way home when one of the dashboard warning lights clicks on. He groans. That’s the last thing he needs. 

It takes him a minute to determine the source; the temperature gauge needle is rapidly climbing toward “hot.” Before he can do more than swear, something starts to bang, and smoke pours from under the hood. 

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” He pulls to the side of the road, tires splashing through a puddle of half-melted slush. Stiles climbs out, his heart pounding with adrenaline. His shoes hit the ground with a wet splat and he has a moment of regret that he decided to wear his new clothes today. 

“Please, don’t be the engine.” Popping the hood makes the smoke billow out faster and he stumbles back a step. “Fuck my life.” It’s definitely coming from the engine.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and fights down the rising anxiety. Deep breaths. He can handle this. He leaves the hood up and climbs back into the car, out of the worsening weather. 

Okay. He just needs to wait for things to cool down enough that he can get the car off the street. There’s a gas station a half-mile down the road that he thinks has a garage attached. He can probably limp there safely, which will be faster and easier than waiting on a tow.

Thirty minutes later he pulls into the darkened lot. It’s after ten on Christmas Eve so of course, it’s closed. He leans his forehead on the steering wheel for a moment to breathe and think.

His dad and Melissa are both at work, Scott’s in San Diego, and he can’t quite bring himself to bother his other local friends, like Kira or Isaac, this late on a holiday.

Uber it is.

He pulls up the app and calls for a ride, groaning when the nearest car shows as thirty minutes away. That’s fine. It’s fine. He can entertain himself for thirty minutes.

The tendrils of smoke curling out from under the hood and the street lights reflecting off the wet windshield would be cool looking if it wasn’t so disheartening. He takes a picture anyway and uploads it. #merrychristmastome #prayformybankaccount #waitingonuber

Then he sighs, pulls his jacket more tightly around his ribs, and curls up to scroll while he waits.

Ten minutes later his Uber cancels. The notification buzz startles him from a half-doze and he blinks under the rush of adrenaline. Crap. He pulls up the app and tries again. This time the closest car is forty-two minutes. His eyes burn with frustration as he requests the new ride. At this rate, it’s going to be midnight before he makes it home. 

The second Uber cancels barely three minutes after that, and now the app says there’s no one nearby. Stiles forces himself to take deep breaths around the panicky fist in his chest. There’s a solution to this. He just needs to calm down and think.

His phone dings with a new DM. He opens it, eager for the distraction from his spiraling thoughts.

 **6thavenuewolf** Are you somewhere safe?

Stiles’ lower lip wobbles. He bites down on it and sniffs to stop the burning behind his eyes, then taps out a reply. _I’m at a gas station, but it’s closed and my fucking Ubers keep canceling._

 **6thavenuewolf** Send me the address.

  


* * *

  


Peter will never admit it, but he’s spent half the evening sprawled across his hotel room bed, stalking Stiles’ Instagram and chuckling at his outrageous posts. It’s the most relaxing night he’s had since he arrived in Beacon Hills.

He managed to put up with his family for four days—Talia should be grateful she had them all under one roof for as long as she did—but after being woken by screaming toddlers for the third morning in a row, he decided enough was enough. He promised his sister he would be home for Christmas brunch and checked himself into the nicest hotel the town has to offer.

He’s three months back in Stiles’ feed, enjoying Stiles’ fall-break trip to Mexico, and thinking about raiding the minibar when he gets a new notification.

 **alwaysbebatman** liked your photo.

 **alwaysbebatman** commented on your photo.

He taps over to see it and grins. Oh, they’re going to play this game, are they? He’s composing a witty reply when he gets yet another notification. 

**alwaysbebatman** posted a photo.

He glances at the clock. It’s late enough that Stiles is probably just getting out of work. Peter wonders if he can convince the boy to stop by for a drink on his way home. Stiles mentioned his father would be working Christmas Eve, so there’s a chance he’d like some company. Peter taps on the notification.

It takes him a moment to understand what he’s looking at, but as soon as he does he opens a direct message, a little knot of worry forming. The picture says it was posted ten minutes ago. That’s a lot of time for something to go wrong. _Are you somewhere safe?_

It flips to “seen” almost immediately and that, at least, is a relief. There’s a brief pause and then it shows Stiles as “typing”.

 **alwaysbebatman** I’m at a gas station, but it’s closed and my fucking Ubers keep canceling.

Peter is already pulling on his shoes and has to draft his response one-handed. _Send me the address._

Stiles turns on location sharing and Peter has a moment of feeling very old. He shakes it off in favor of being glad he won’t have to guess where Stiles is. He snags his keys and wallet and takes the elevator to the parking garage.

Thankfully, Stiles is only a few miles away and Peter makes good time despite the weather.

The old blue jeep is easy to spot, parked under a cone of light from the bright street lamp in front of the gas station. Smart boy. Peter pulls up next to him in the slushy lot—he’s glad he’s in a rental, the rear-wheel-drive on his Shelby is a disaster in the snow.

Stiles jumps down from the Jeep and locks it. Peter feels some invisible tension release as he dashes across the space between their cars. Even hunched against the miserable weather Stiles looks good, his long, lean form wrapped in the clothes Peter bought him. Though a warmer jacket wouldn’t be amiss.

Stiles opens the doors and collapses on the passenger seat in a damp sprawl of limbs. He’s talking before he even gets the door shut again. “Hey. Thank you so much for this, dude.” He fumbles with his seatbelt. He’s shivering. “For a minute there I thought I was gonna be the next Little Match Boy.”

Peter reaches out and cranks the heat. “I always preferred Terry Pratchett’s version of that one.”

Stiles flashes him a tired smile. “You would.” He holds his hands up to the blast of warm air and moans, long and low. “God, that feels good.”

Peter takes a steadying breath as he’s flooded with all the _other_ ways he could cause that reaction. At least a dozen of them involve his hotel room and significantly less clothing—the rest are more creative. How much convincing it would take to get Stiles to join him for a drink after all? A drink with the option for more.

“Do you know where Woodbine Lane is? Or Cedar?” Stiles tucks his cold-reddened fingertips into the slats of the vent, like he can’t get close enough to the heat source.

Peter nods. “I’m familiar.” He glances at the Jeep. “Will your car be alright here?”

Stiles lifts a shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “Not like I have another option. I found the number for the garage online and left a message. I’m guessing they’re closed tomorrow though.”

Peter hums in agreement and pulls out onto the road, turning reluctantly toward the residential part of town.

Once they start to move Stiles settles back in his seat with a tired sigh. The click of the windshield wipers and the swish of tires on wet asphalt is the only thing that breaks the quiet. 

Peter usually doesn’t overthink propositioning someone, particularly when he knows the interest is mutual, yet he's hesitating. He can practically feel the exhaustion rolling off of Stiles, and as much as he doesn’t want to let him go home, the boy looks like he needs sleep more than anything else.

He glances over again. Stiles is slumped in the seat, clutching his phone and scrolling through what appears to be a banking app. He’s pale in the dim light from the screen, subdued and chewing on his lower lip.

Peter frowns. A potentially large car repair bill has to be a disappointing setback for someone who’s been exhausting himself working three jobs.

The desire that was simmering shifts. It’s disconcerting to realize that he’s more interested in making the boy feel better than he is in fucking him—that he’d rather take care of Stiles than _take care_ of him.

He snorts, amused by his train of thought. Stiles rolls his head to look at him.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, curiosity coloring his worn-out tone.

Peter pushes his unsettling thoughts away and smirks. “I was thinking about how it took a broken down car, a snowstorm, and some shitty Uber drivers, but now I’ve got you right where I want you.”

Stiles’ mouth twitches and he hums, amused. “Yeah, that’s not creepy at _all_.”

“Creepy depends on what I decide to do with you next.”

Stiles licks his lips and shifts in his seat. “Are you taking suggestions?” He reaches out and slowly walks his fingers down the arm Peter’s resting on the gear shift. “Cause I can think of a few things.” He traces across Peter’s knuckles.

Peter flips his hand over and catches the still-cold fingers. “I bet you can.” He lifts Stiles’ hand and kisses the back of it. “Come back to my hotel with me.”

Even in the intermittent light from the streetlamps Stiles’ blush stands out. “Yeah. Okay.” He sits up a little straighter, looking more alert.

“Excellent.” Peter makes a u-turn—carefully, the roads are a mess after all—and heads for his hotel.

He didn’t give much thought to the underground parking garage when he checked in that morning but he’s grateful for it now. He’ll probably be even more appreciative when he doesn’t have to scrape ice off his car before Christmas brunch tomorrow.

Stiles is jittery by the time they reach Peter’s spot and climb out. He runs a hand through his hair and tugs at his damp clothes, trying to straighten them. He notices Peter watching and ducks his head sheepishly. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Did you just google the most expensive place in town?”

Peter decides to let that one go—Stiles will get used to Peter’s taste for nice things eventually. “Do you need to call anyone? Tell them where you are?” Peter walks to the back of the car and holds out his hand, beckoning.

“Already done.” Stiles steps into Peter’s space. “Did I mention my dad’s a cop?” He smirks. “He’ll foil any nefarious plans you have for me.”

“That would be unfortunate.” Peter lets his lips curl in a slow smile as he backs Stiles up against the trunk, trapping him with hands bracketing his hips. “Because I think you’re going to like my plans.” 

He slides a hand into Stiles’ hair, closes the remaining distance, and proceeds to kiss him breathless, licking into his mouth until he’s clinging to Peter and making low, desperate noises. Peter takes his time, learning Stiles’ taste and the spots that make him squirm—their last kiss wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy.

This one isn’t either if he’s being honest.

Stiles pulls him closer and it takes Peter far too long to realize that despite the enthusiastic response, Stiles is shivering, still damp from the weather, and pressed against a cold, wet car in an unheated parking garage.

Peter frowns into the kiss before breaking it. “We should get you inside and warmed up.” He pulls Stiles away from the trunk and rubs his arms briskly.

Some of the kiss-drunk haze leaves Stiles’ expression and he snickers. “Oh, yeah,” he moans in a cheesy porn-star voice. “Warm me up, Daddy.”

Peter snorts. “Careful, brat, or I’ll be warming your backside with my palm.”

Stiles grins and shivers again, dramatically this time. ”Sorry, I have a ‘no spanking on the first date’ rule.”

“If we’re keeping count, I’d argue this is our second date.” He nudges Stiles in the direction of the elevator, then gives his ass a playful tap.

Stiles laughs and covers the “wounded” area with his hands, his eyes bright, color high on his cheeks. “Guess I hafta be on my best behavior then.” He scampers ahead.

Peter shakes his head with a rueful grin, hits the lock button on the car, and follows.

Stiles is right that this is one of the more upscale hotels in town and Peter’s room is proof of that. It’s not the nicest suite the place has to offer—only because that one was booked—but it does have a large, comfortable bed and a decadent bathroom.

Peter leaves Stiles in the foyer and heads to the thermostat to raise the temperature by a few degrees. 

When he turns back, Stiles is eyeing a lamp like it might bite him as he tries to toe-off his high-top Chucks without unlacing them. “This place is _so_ not Stiles proof.” He mutters, stumbling sideways a little.

Peter bites his lip to keep from laughing, walks over, and kneels down to help him. “Hands on my shoulders, sweetheart.” He waits for Stiles to lean on him before loosening the laces and sliding the shoe off his heel.

One of Stiles’ hands drifts from Peter’s shoulder to his hair and his fingers card through, tugging on the short strands. “Oh my god, you’re not allowed to keep teasing me like this.” He squirms and Peter glances up to see the outline of his cock as it thickens in his perfectly-fitted pants.

Peter grins as he gets the other shoe off as well and stands, letting his hands run up the outsides of rain-damp thighs until they stop at narrow hips. “You’re assuming,” he drops a kiss on Stiles’ lips, “that I won’t follow through.”

Stiles sucks in a breath, then uses the grip on Peter’s hair to reel him into another kiss. It’s hard, wet, and perfect. Heat pools in Peter’s gut, building the anticipation. 

He doesn’t let them get too carried away. Stiles is still cold. He breaks the kiss and doesn’t let the disappointed whine sway him.

“You should grab a shower and warm up.” He presses his lips to Stiles’ chilled forehead, breathing him in. “I’d suggest a bath but with as long as your day’s been, I’m afraid you might drown.”

A shower will also have the benefit of washing away the scent of coffee and restaurant that’s clinging to his skin. It’s not bad, but Peter would prefer the clean scent of boy, especially one who’s used Peter’s bath products.

Stiles snickers, his expression turning sheepish. “That’s valid. A shower’s probably safer.” He peaks up through his lashes. “Will you join me? Make sure I don’t get into trouble?”

Peter examines the hopeful look and smirks in response. “Oh, I fully intend to. But first, I’m going to run to the shop in the lobby and pick up a few things.”

“Oh, cool.” Stiles glances around the room. “I hope those things are condoms and lube,” he says absently as he eyes the bed, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Peter doesn’t think he meant for that to be out loud, but it’s good to know where his boy’s head is at. “Duly noted. Now,” he gives Stiles one more swift kiss, then turns and nudges him in the direction of the well-appointed bathroom. “Stay awake for me and I promise a reward when I get back.”

“Oh, you’re on,” Stiles says over his shoulder as he lets his jacket fall to the floor. His shirt follows, creating an enticing trail of clothing. 

Peter pauses, keycard in hand, to admire the long, lean lines of his back and the round swell of his ass. The things he wants to do to this boy. . . He shakes himself, makes sure he’s got his wallet, and leaves the room just as the shower cuts on.

It takes less than ten minutes to visit the well-stocked shop in the lobby. His original goal is a simple find—because while he’s happy to let Stiles use his toiletries, no one wants to share a toothbrush. He also snags a pre-packaged fruit and cheese plate and a couple of bottles of juice.

He doesn’t get condoms or lube. Those he picked up earlier in the week from a place with a broader range of options. His preferred brands aren’t typically stocked outside of specialty shops. Chris calls him a snob—like the asshole doesn’t steal them from Peter when they’re out together. Stiles will probably say the same.

The mental image of a wet, naked Stiles is so enticing that Peter has to fight not to hurry the cashier along. It’s not her fault he needs to get his hands on that boy’s ass. 

Back in the room, he pops the snacks in the mini-fridge, takes off his shoes and socks, and heads for the bathroom. The shower is still running, the door wide open in invitation with steam billowing around the frame.

He pauses to take in the gorgeous creature in his shower. The mental image didn’t do him justice.

Stiles is standing with his hands braced against the wall, his head bowed under the spray. Water sluices down his back, over the dips and curves of muscle and pale skin, flushed from heat. 

_God_ , if Peter thought his ass looked good in those pants, it doesn’t hold a candle to the way he looks out of them. Peter’s palms itch with the need to touch. He wants to taste the water on Stiles’ skin, to put his tongue _everywhere_.

“Did you still want company?” He sets Stiles’ toothbrush on the counter next to his own and moves closer—it’s not even a conscious decision.

Stiles lifts his head and rests his chin on his bicep. “I don’t know. What about my reward?” He flashes Peter a cheeky grin.

Peter returns it, slow and sharp, letting heat fill his eyes. “Don’t worry, baby. I keep my promises.” He grips the hem of his shirt and raises it, slowly baring tanned skin and the abs he works hard to keep.

Stiles’ eyes widen and his throat clicks on a dry swallow.

Just before he pulls the shirt over his head, Peter pauses, the majority of his chest on display. “Unless _you’ve_ changed your mind.”

Stiles’ breath hitches and he shakes his head rapidly. “Fuck, no.” His tongue darts out, licking at a bead of water dangling from the perfect cupid’s bow of his lips. “Please,” he rasps.

Peter smirks—he does love a boy who’s willing to beg—and drags the shirt off, flexing his shoulders and biceps deliberately as he lets it drop to the floor.

Stiles’ gaze rakes over him greedily, his mouth open, breath quickening. When Peter pops the button on his jeans and lowers the zipper he stalls on the vee of toned muscle and neatly trimmed hair. Then he snorts. “Of _course_ you go commando.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Is that a complaint?” He slides his pants down, freeing his heavy, thickening cock, and kicks them aside. He strokes himself once, teasing.

Stiles _whines_ and makes grabby hands at him. “Oh my god, get over here, I need to touch you.”

Peter can’t stop his bemused chuckle as he closes the distance between them and steps under the hot spray of the shower.

Stiles doesn’t wait for permission. As soon as he’s in touching distance Stiles’ hands are on him, dragging up over Peter’s pecs, tracing along the ridge of his collarbone, across his shoulders, and finally closing around his biceps. “How are you even real?” He leans in and licks a stripe up Peter’s throat. “Fuck,” he groans. “I’ve wanted to do that since the bookstore.” 

Peter’s eyes fall shut, shifting to give Stiles more room to explore. “Even when you thought I was dating my sister?” He wraps his hands around narrow hips, his thumbs falling naturally into the hollows where he rubs circles on silky-smooth skin.

Stiles groans again but in embarrassment this time. “Yeah,” he mumbles, muffling the words in Peter’s neck. “But I was gonna punch you in your stupid face first.”

Peter huffs and presses a kiss to the soft spot under his ear. “You wouldn’t be the first to try.” He nips lightly, tasting heat, wet, _Stiles_.

Stiles shudders and arches closer. Curious hands slide from Peter’s ribs to his back and down to squeeze his ass. Stiles makes a desperate sound as he kneads the muscle. “I take it back. I wanted to do _this_ since the bookstore.”

Peter hums and basks in the waves of pleasure. He rocks closer, pressing his quickly filling cock to the hollow of Stiles’ hip and letting Stiles rub against Peter’s thigh. 

Speaking of things they’ve wanted to do. . . He has to work not to get caught up in the dirty grind. He has a plan, and it involves getting his hands all over Stiles before he takes him apart with his mouth. He made a promise after all. 

While Stiles is occupied sucking what feels like a spectacular bruise into his collar bone, Peter reaches over and grabs the shower gel. Sliding soapy hands over smooth skin, he traces the dips and curves of Stiles’ back. It gets him a pleased hum and an enthusiastic nuzzle.

Maneuvering them further under the spray, he kisses his way down Stiles’ throat as he washes away the remnants of the day with firm strokes of his hands. He spends a minute kneading at the tight muscles of Stiles’ lower back, a spot he knows gets sore after being on your feet for hours on end.

Stiles groans and starts to sag against him, head falling to Peter’s shoulder. “God, that feels too good. You’re gonna put me to sleep.”

Peter wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist to trap the slumping form to his chest. “Well, we wouldn’t want that. I still have a promise to keep.” He slides a palm over the perfect curve of Stiles’ ass and squeezes.

Stiles presses into Peter’s hands. “Yes,” he moans. “Holding you to that.” His fingers slip over wet skin as he tugs, trying to pull Peter impossibly closer. When Peter’s fingers dip between his cheeks he groans low in his throat, his head falling back. His cock twitches against Peter’s hip. “ _Please_ , Peter.”

“Patience, sweetheart.” Peter’s voice is more growl than he intended but damn it, despite his best intentions Stiles is pushing all his buttons. Peter drags fingers over his tight little hole, reveling in the arch and tremble of his body, the involuntary gasp. 

“ _Peter_.”

Peter spins him around so his back is to Peter’s front, hopefully stopping the temptation to press inside and open his boy up. The new position has his rigid cock nestled between firm cheeks—it’s not actually an improvement for his restraint. 

He shuts his eyes for a moment, grappling for control against the surge of need. Having that lanky body squirming against him, begging to be taken, is nearly enough to do him in. But fucking Stiles isn’t on the agenda tonight. No matter how much Peter wants to spend hours taking him apart, there’s no way he’ll last that long, and Peter doesn’t find somnophilia particularly appealing. 

“Hush, baby. Don’t you want to be good for me?”

Stiles lets his head fall to Peter’s shoulder with a frustrated mewl. “No. You’re _killing_ me.” 

Despite the protest, he stops squirming, going soft and pliant in Peter’s arms. He lets Peter gather more soap and massage it over his chest and down, tweaking his nipples and teasing over sensitive ribs. 

When Peter reaches his hard, flushed cock, Stiles turns his face to hide in Peter’s neck with a whimper. Peter drags a kiss along his hairline and wraps a soapy hand around him. 

He strokes, slow and deliberate, fondling and exploring a little too much to pass it off as “bathing” while the hot length twitches and throbs in his grip.

Stiles is trembling. “Don’t come like a teenager,” he begs under his breath, his hands finding Peter’s forearms and clinging tightly. He pushes his head back against Peter’s shoulder, swallowing hard against the desperate sounds that keep slipping free.

His lack of filter is adorable. His desperation, though, is pushing Peter to his limit.

Peter takes pity—for both of their sakes—and doesn’t tease Stiles for _too_ long. He has other plans for his boy’s pretty cock, and they require a location that doesn’t have so much potential for injury. Stiles plus shower-sex sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.

Stiles makes a wounded sound when Peter releases him and helps him straighten.

Peter drops an apologetic kiss on the back of his neck, taking a moment to taste clean, wet skin and get himself under control again. “I know, baby, but I thought you wanted my mouth.”

If it wasn’t for Peter’s hands on his hips, Stiles would probably be a puddle on the shower floor. “Yes. That. Let’s do that.” He nods emphatically, working to get his legs back under him.

Getting himself clean and getting them out of the shower is a blur. They’re still a little damp when Peter sits Stiles on the edge of the bed and arranges him to Peter’s liking.

Stiles’ chest heaves as he watches Peter with half-lidded eyes, his pale flushed with both arousal and the heat of the shower. The boy is beautifully debauched, waiting obediently, his legs spread and his fingers dug into the sheets, ready for Peter to play with.

Peter drops to his knees between Stiles’ feet, hands on his thighs to press them wider. “So pretty.”

Stiles’ breath hitches. “Please,” he begs, knuckles going white as he tightens his grip. “I’m so fucking close.” 

“Deep breaths, sweetheart.” Peter slides his hands over smooth skin lightly dusted with fine hair. “Stay still and let me take my time with you. Be a good boy.”

Stiles keens and shuts his eyes, sucking in deep, ragged breaths. “Oh fuck,” he whimpers under his breath. 

Peter rubs soothing circles with his thumbs until Stiles’ breathing slows and his shoulders loosen. “That’s it, baby. I’m gonna find all the things you like.” He drops a kiss on Stiles’ knee, then trails his lips inwards towards his goal, mapping out soft skin and memorizing the places that make Stiles twitch and squirm.

Stiles shivers and pulls restlessly at the sheets. His cock is rock-hard and leaking against his belly. It’s as perfect as the rest of him, not too thick or excessively long, and with just the right amount of curve. 

Peter doesn’t bottom often, but he does enjoy it when the opportunity presents itself. He wonders how Stiles feels about topping—because the boy would be stunning tied spread-eagle to Peter’s bedposts and ridden until he’s sobbing with pleasure. 

Glancing up, he takes in the blown pupils and open-mouthed, dazed expression. Now probably isn’t the time to ask.

Returning to his exploration, Peter presses his nose to the crease of Stiles’ hip and breathes him in. It’s much better without the distracting remains of coffee and restaurant. He tastes delicate skin with a groan, loving the way Stiles struggles to remain still, his breath hitching, every inch of him begging for more. 

Peter turns and licks a stripe up the underside of his cock with a flat tongue.

Desperate hands abandon the sheets and fly forward to latch onto Peter’s shoulders as Stiles curls over him with a ragged moan. 

Peter hums and does it again, enjoying the texture, the flavor. He wants to see how far Stiles will let him push, how much Peter can do before he’s overwhelmed and begging.

Stiles’ fingers clench, digging into muscle. His thighs are trembling under Peter’s hands. “Oh, god,” he whimpers. “I can’t—I—this is gonna be over so fast.”

Though perhaps more teasing will have to wait; he doesn’t want to break the poor thing after all. He drops a wet kiss on the head, wraps his fingers in a tight ring around the base, and swallows him to the root.

Stiles cries out, his hips jerking enough that Peter has to tighten his grip to hold him down as he writhes.

He takes Stiles deep, sucking hard as he moves over him and getting a burst of salty pre-come for his efforts. Peter groans at the taste, tonguing at his slit for more.

God, he loves this, loves the sensation of a cock in his mouth and the control he holds over his partner as they fall apart under him. And Stiles is taking it perfectly, clinging and desperate, but not fighting to direct him. Peter wants him closer, deeper. He pulls off and slides his hands to the back of Stiles’ knees, jerking his ass to the edge of the bed.

Stiles yelps as he loses his grip on Peter’s shoulders and goes sprawling back. His chest heaves as he sucks in air, scrabbling for something to hang onto.

Peter snags the flailing hands and directs them to his hair. “Hold tight as you want, baby.” Then he presses Stiles’ legs wide, grips his ass, and swallows him again, starting a rhythm that will send him right to the edge.

Stiles takes him at his word, fingers tangling in short strands and clinging for all he’s worth. He gasps and pleads, hips rocking to meet Peter’s mouth. 

Peter groans when the head hits the back of his throat just enough to make his body clench and send tingles sparking through him. The angle’s not right to let Stiles fuck his throat, but this still feels fantastic—and the dull pressure on his scalp only makes it better.

Peter is suddenly aware of his own aching cock. He wraps a hand around himself, squeezing to take the edge off and keep his focus on his boy where it belongs.

He takes Stiles as deep as he can, swallowing around him. Stiles is babbling now, incoherent as he chases his pleasure. Peter reaches up and cups his balls, index finger rubbing the sensitive spot just behind them as he sucks hard.

Stiles thrusts up twice and comes with a broken shout, his body clenching and shaking as he pulses against Peter’s tongue. 

Peter swallows his release easily, milking him until he melts into a trembling, over-sensitive puddle. 

Pulling off, he presses his forehead to Stiles’ thigh, panting as he jacks himself quickly. It takes barely a dozen strokes before pleasure rushes up and shudders through him, a muffled groan escaping as he spills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on Tumblr! [shey-elizabeth](https://shey-elizabeth.tumblr.com/). I post WiP updates and a lot of Chris and Peter being Daddy AF.


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